


Ante Bellum

by Talullah



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-09
Updated: 2008-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:28:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2181432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gildor emerges from his boredom in the last of days only to find that some things never change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fimbrethiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fimbrethiel/gifts).



> Betaed by minuial_nuwing who has my profuse thanks. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Written for slashy_santa, for fimbrethiel, whose requested was as follows: PG13 - NC17; Pairing = A Silmarillion Elf,preferably one of Fëanor's sons, paired with another Elf, or a Maia or Vala if that choice works better for you. Please do not use married-in-canon Elves unless the explanation of a different lover is plausible; Plot = I'd like a Valinor story with a reunion between lovers after their release from Mandos(either one died and the other waited, or both died and were reborn). There is strife between them - jealousy, misunderstanding, guilt, or whatever you want -but conclude with make-up sex and a happy ending. Can be drama, mild angst,sweet/romantic, even h/c is ok, but please avoid an excess of fluff or angst;please do not include any of the following: BDSM, blood, rape/non-con(consensual coercion is OK), fluffy critters, AU, effeminate or weepy characters. No movie-only characters (ex. Melpomaen) or scenarios (ex. Haldir at Helm's Deep). If you choose to make the couple bonded, do not refer to either one as 'husband' - mate, lover, or spouse is fine.
> 
> "Eternity is a very long time, especially towards the end." -- Stephen Hawking
> 
> Tolkien did say that gender roles were less defined among elves and that females frequently took on masculine roles, according to inclination... then he left one single example of this behaviour in his work, Galadriel tearing down Dol Guldur. For the effects of this story, I'm assuming that women warriors were not abundant, or encouraged.
> 
> Gil-galad as Fingon's son? Why not? Given a choice of incompetent warrior fathers, he has more charisma than Orodreth anyway. :P
> 
> In the fic several characters refer to Gildor as cousin and he addresses Finarfin as uncle. I'm not working with any defined family tree in mind or any theory behind the much debated 'Inglorion' - just that he was part of one of the minor branches of the family and that 'cousin' was not necessarily meant to signify 'first degree cousin' and that 'uncle' could be used loosely for an old male relative, as it is in many southern European languages.
> 
> Vanyo/Vanye - fair (from [Quenya Lapseparma](http://www.elvish.org/elm/names.html)).
> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

For long, Gildor had felt tired. The world had spun too many times before his eyes and nothing truly new was left in the wake of the rushing millennia. At least there was peace, a blessing, he forced himself to remember. Not that Gildor had ever liked the carnage per se, but truth be told, there was a certain kind of exhilaration in open battle that had once made his blood sing, not to mention the rushes of fear and triumph he had so often tasted along his very successful career as a spy and mercenary. But for the last several millennia of his life there had been nothing left to fight for - not in Aman, the Blessed Land of Boredom.

He had travelled from north and south, from the Sundering Seas to the Eikar, and there was not one nook or one cranny left on Aman for him to discover. Eternity could be a very long time, especially towards the end, but fortunately, the end was about to come. Finally!!!

Looking at the angry red sky, Gildor squinted at the twirling clouds, excitement twisting his lips in a fearsome grin. Around him, the mob whimpered and begged for the Valar's protection but not him. He filled his lungs with the sweet smell of anxiety and elbowed his way through the mass of bodies, heading for the rear of the crowd. He had no need to hear Manwë's stilted speech announcing what should be plain to all: the Dagor Dagorath was coming and it was not looking pretty.

Whistling as he moved through the empty streets, he hurried up to his place. There were weapons to sharpened, old wily wrestling moves to be practiced, leather and mail to be oiled... Thinking on how far he had let himself go, Gildor cursed. It was unworthy of him. At least he had not gained weight, like so many of those standing in the square. They had an army of fat farmers and scared housewives, that's what they had. Gildor clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and set himself to work.

Hours later, Gildor's skin glistened with sweat. Night should have fallen by now, but as in the previous days, the same eerie red luminosity that clouded the days, lit the night skies. He tossed himself onto his silken eiderdown, disregarding what damages his sweat could inflict on it - the world was about to end anyway. Talk about omens; if there had ever been one, that menacing sky would be it. Gildor wondered when the storm would finally break down on them. The prophecy was adequately vague. Mandos had given them barely enough to even recognize what was happening. The prophecy had been written to paper but centuries of embellished copying had twisted it into dozens of unrecognizable versions. He had witnessed its speaking first hand, but he could not recall it precisely, nor could anyone else and Mandos kept conveniently quiet. Gildor remembered the old days, when he himself had read fortunes in the quays of Brithombar for ale money, and laughed out loud. Mandos, that old fox, sure knew how to deliver just enough to keep his credibility intact. Very helpful in times of need.

They would still have a few more days, Gildor could feel it. Some of the boys who lived on his street had come knocking on his door the day before, searching for training and a way out of their mother's skirts. Good youths, those brave, wide-eyed little things. They wouldn't last half an hour on a battlefield, though, and Gildor could only teach them the basics.

But more would come, better trained, more experienced. Of that Gildor was sure - he did recall something of the prophecy, something about Mandos' gates opening on the last of days and the dead marching out, long columns of those who had nothing to lose. That would be interesting, to say the least... There were a few faces Gildor longed to see again, though he doubted they would have time for cheerful gatherings. Others, he feared. He would face them, without a doubt, but he imagined that they reserved him only hatred, their deaths being met at the end of his sword. That problem would be dealt with when it came. Gildor pulled his curtain shut, futilely trying to block the red glow, and forced himself to sleep.

* * *

Morning came and with it, the king's men, knocking loudly on every door, calling the boys out to arms. Gildor sat on his bed, rubbing his eyes and yawning. They could wait. He had waited for a very long time for the king's attention, but his uncle seemed to have more pressing business on his mind than a wayward second nephew with a shady reputation. Knowing that the soldiers would return to his house before they left the neighbourhood, Gildor took his time, making some tea, washing his upper body and donning his military garb, no doubt unfashionable now, but robust and trustworthy. He waited for the soldier-boys leaning on his doorjamb, lazily biting an apple.

The boys obviously expected more of the same, children like themselves who had never seen blood. The taller one with the single stripe on his shoulder saluted him, and stuttered the king's decree, blushing furiously at Gildor's smile. Gildor chuckled, but followed them. Soon enough there would be some sort of triage and he would be in a position to do more than be amused by the innocence of the boys.

* * *

Time flew. Four days had passed since King Finarfin had called all able men to arms and Gildor had been assigned captain of a company of inept children. He did his best to be amused and to drill into them all that he could, as fast as they could take it, but you couldn't build a company in four days, and certainly not an army. The sky seemed to be lowering on them, as in a sinister countdown.

He had spotted some of his cousins from afar but everyone seemed to be happy to keep their distances. For the admittedly skilled diplomat that he was, Gildor had done a superb job of alienating his family. He didn't miss them, though. Well, at least not enough to lose sleep over it. He did wish that he could access one of them without having to swallow too much pride. Under his permanent amusement, he was starting to feel scared. Even if the people they had gathered in Tirion were well prepared, they were not even close to enough in number to face what was coming. Where were the hosts of Mandos? Who were they? How many? The prophecy spoke of Turin Turambar... not that they needed a clumsy jinx with a chip on his shoulder, but if he came forth, so would other men and the elves would not be alone in this.

The world had seen eight ages since Gildor's birth. How many people slept in the Halls of Waiting, and how many would come to their rescue? And would they come at all? From the corner of his eye, Gildor spotted Aredhel. Varda, but was she still beautiful in her masculine way. Odd, how so few people he knew had been reborn... and eerie how much they were still themselves. No, Gildor would only talk to Aredhel if Morgoth himself insisted.

He resolutely turned to his recruits. Gildor was convinced that Vanyo was a girl, in fact, a girl he knew, Vanye, the baker's daughter, and the thought amused him to no end - she was his best, despite the inferior strength. He had always employed women in his companies and he had never had a complaint on a single one. It was sad to see that Finarfin had not moved with the times, and so left half of his subjects out of the brawl because of gender... Gildor suspected that the old wart had never really forgiven Galadriel for besting him in strength. Gildor grinned. Now if there was one person he could count on, that would be little old Artanis. He had a little plan forming - no time like the end of the world for a little insubordination - and Galadriel would be the perfect ally... if she only could be found.

He called Vanyo and gave her his orders for the afternoon, promising to drop by unexpectedly to keep them sharp. A lock of honeyed hair fell on her forehead as she nodded in assent. Again Gildor inspected the innocent hazel eyes, the fine line of the jaw, delicate nose and lips... she was a girl, alright, and the right kind of girl. Gildor left, thinking on how well she would fit into his plans.

* * *

Galadriel was found by her husband's side, furiously chewing on her thumbnail as she supervised the feminine war effort. Gildor had tracked Celeborn in the improvised military camp and had followed him until he reached Galadriel. Her eyes flashed when she saw him.

"Ah, cousin," she testily said. "I imagine you need something from me. Maybe a few bandages, a good luck charm, some lembas?"

"Easy," Celeborn said, discretely patting her forearm.

Galadriel frowned and shook her head. "I am sorry Gildor... It's just that-" she sighed and moved her arm in an arc, encompassing all the good little girls who sewed and packed.

Gildor nodded. "I know."

Galadriel led them into her office and sat behind her desk, offering seats with a gesture. Gildor took his seat and heard Celeborn closing the door behind him.

"So, cousin, what can I do for you?" Galadriel asked, her voice now composed into the familiar mix of dignity and compassion, with a whiff of amusement.

"I think we have concurring goals..."

Galadriel raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

"Not to demean your work, but do you really need all these women for these tasks?"

Galadriel wearily closed her eyes, "No, and you know it perfectly well."

"It looks like you have some sturdy little farm girls in there, too. I bet they'd be better at handling, say, a fork than a needle... and one who handles her fork well may, who knows, show a talent for the spear. Or a good little scythe user may be taught to harvest other things than cereal..."

Galadriel exchanged a glance with Celeborn. "I'm listening."

"Did I mention that I'm training a company in the city? My best soldier is delicate like a woman in appearance, even looks like my baker's daughter... but you should see those finely muscled arms ramming a sword into an opponent. Must be all that lifting of paddles full of dough..." Gildor leaned back in his chair and crossed his leg over the other. "Galadriel, let's cut to the chase. You know perfectly well what I mean."

Galadriel nodded but Celeborn spoke. "You are right, of course and many others have expressed the same feeling, but there are... complications."

"Politics, you mean. Tell me exactly why someone like Galadriel, who has proven herself so many times, should be here and _Aredhel_ , whose ability I won't even comment on, be on the main stage?"

Celeborn snorted. "Gildor, my friend, you happily removed yourself from court a _long_ while ago. Some things have changed... Let's just say that my father-in-law has made some concessions to his fears."

"What fears?"

"My father thinks that I may want a crown for myself... at the expense of his," Galadriel said, looking away.

Gildor saw the brief shine in her eyes. "Holy-"

"Yes," Celeborn cut. "It's too late to get into details of how and why and who, but know this - we were lucky not to have been exiled."

"Exiled? Where to? It's not like you have many places in Aman to..." Gildor's voice died. There was one place people did get exiled to - Mandos. "Surely it has not come to that... Galadriel, you are his daughter, after all."

Galadriel swallowed dryly. "Why, yes, I am," she said with piercing irony.

Gildor stared at his hands for a few moments. "So you won't help me, is that it? No point in trying to prepare these women minimally for what's to come because we may get our heads chopped off before we're done with the training."

Galadriel cast Gildor a sharp glance. "I didn't say that." She rose to her feet and walked to her husband. "My dear, night is falling... I have some bandages to check on, but why don't you show our cousin...." She left the room without a glance back.

Celeborn sighed. "Come on, then."

* * *

It was well after midnight when Gildor found his bed, but the sky seemed brighter each night, and the room was lit as during daytime, despite the heavy drapes. He was exhausted, but too winded to sleep. Staring at the ceiling, Gildor recapitulated his day. Being designated a mere captain for all his experience had smarted his pride a little, but he could admit to himself that he preferred to do what he did best and be on the field, instead of keeping with the nest of vipers that Finarfin's court was. After the enlightening conversation with Galadriel and Celeborn, he was even surer of the rightness of his decision to live a simple life as the embarrassing black sheep of the family. He had quite a history in that department, and save Galadriel and few others, he didn't really miss court life at all.

Gildor had seen a lot of filth in his long life, but what Galadriel had told him, later fleshed with details by Celeborn, was enough to shock even him. He looked back on certain moments, reliving them in a completely different light... Elrond's sudden decision to leave Tirion and move to the south had been nothing short of a flight, after all... and Finrod, once his father's pride and joy, was not as keen in hunting as his prolonged stays in Oromë's woods suggested.

The wise Finarfin had let his home rot and nursed suspicion about his own children. Celeborn had named no one, but in his words and from his own observation of who sat close to the king, Gildor could put two and two together. Fortunately, they were running out of time. He would not be dragged to the mud, not this time, even if Galadriel's treason was discovered. He bit back a grin. Good old Nerwen...was there ever a name better attributed? She was risking her neck for the greater good, not for the first time, and was several steps ahead of him. Every night, Celeborn trained - in secret, of course - some of the girls who were under his wife's tutelage, along with others recruited through a network of trust. Gildor had been impressed with the quality of Celeborn's instruction.

Galadriel, accomplished in warfare as she was, preferred to devote her energy to other dealings, in Celeborn's words. Gildor had no trouble devising the truth in this vagary: Galadriel was polishing the rust off her magical abilities. There was a reason she had always been his favourite and this was it.

Galadriel had appealed directly to Finarfin for the inclusion of women in the training companies but out of spite and sheer stubbornness, her father had refused. How the mighty fall, and how the wise turn blind... at least Fingolfin should be happy now that he was not the only pigheaded fool among Indis' sons. Finarfin's house was more than ripe, it was rotting on the vine, and Gildor could easily see Fingolfin waiting patiently for his moment.

Mandos would have done better to keep him longer.

Gildor sighed and turned face down, in a futile attempt to block the red glare out and allow sleep in. The sky was falling on their heads, more literally than he cared to contemplate, and his uncles were more concerned with politics than with survival. The Valar were absent, deserting them for their own affairs. The tension was palpable and the storm was right on their heads, and there was no sign of the prophesised hosts from Mandos. Eru help them all.


	2. Chapter 2

Hours later, Gildor had finally been beaten by fatigue. Only a few moments seemed to have passed when the king's bugler roused him and the rest of the street for a gathering in the main square.

Cursing Finarfin and the Valar alike, Gildor slipped into his boots, thinking that he would have to find time for washing and clothes changing sometime soon - he had been wearing the same shirt for three days, and it reeked.

The main square was half-full by the time he arrived but they barely had to wait before it was full to the brim and Finarfin addressed his people. Gildor yawned - the king's speech was as empty as his previous spouting, full of requests for sacrifice from his people and thanks for the efforts already shown. What was left unsaid spoke more of fear and ignorance than of any possible source of reassurance. Gildor could see the crowd agitating, fear drumming its fingers on their peace-accustomed hearts.

Mandos and Manwë exchanged a glance and Finarfin, catching it, halted himself and passed them the word.

"Brave people," Manwë started, his unwarranted grandiloquence sickening Gildor.

"Just say it, already," he muttered to himself.

Manwë complied. "We have more to share with you today. We can all feel that the time is coming, swift and brutal, and we must be ready against this enemy we cannot count or otherwise assess. Do not despair, though. Mandos..."

Mandos stepped forward. "My gates have been opened and while you prepared yourselves, a host larger than anything you can imagine has marched to the doors of Tirion." Despite his sombre delivery, the crowd raised a cheer as one. Mandos cleared his throat. "I am sure that all present have someone they want to see... and you will, but do not neglect your obligations. Be ready, be alert. We do not know what's coming or how. And find food for all these people - empty the silos, if needed. They have lived on spirit for far too long."

Manwë stepped forward. "Have faith. We are not alone. Eru will not desert us." He lowered his chin to his chest in a silent prayer and after a few moments, dismissed the crowd with simple words.

* * *

An army of risen dead. New borns. Reincarnate. Whatever they were, Gildor had to see them. He took his company for a supposed exercise of resistance marching, but he stopped them right outside the city's gates. He was not really sure who he looked for. His father, maybe. His brother. His king, the only king he could recognize in his heart, Gil-galad. So many friends... The whole city had converged to the camp and confusion abounded. He dismissed his recruits and watched them finding their own way through the crowd, letting his eyes captured details here and there, how minimally equipped everyone seemed to be, how a certain vagueness clouded the eyes of many of the returned. He searched for a vantage point. Yes, Mandos had been correct. The vastness of the crowd defied all expectations. Gildor's eyes could not reach a bare inch of ground. Indeed, empty the silos. Judging from his rough estimates, they'd have food for one day, if that much. Mandos knew more than he had let on, as expected.

Gildor sighed and merged into the crowd. In that sea of people, surely he would find someone he knew.

* * *

For all the immenseness of the crowd, finding his own was not as difficult as Gildor had anticipated. Those released had naturally organized themselves during the days when they had traversed the continent, gathering in smaller groups of family and friends. At first, he could only recognize them by the clothing. Hair styles and clothes that had not been used in ages, weapons that had since been perfected into smoother designs, accents from the past...

Then, as he mingled, now and then a familiar face flashed with a trace of mutual recognition. He approached them, greeted them, and despite his awe, he found cascades of questions dropping from his mouth, his old self unable to resist the urge to collect information. He quickly learned that the Sindar and the Silvan had headed south to Oromë's woods and gathered there with their living kin. The few Vanyar among them had sought refuge with Inwë. They had seen Men and Dwarves and Orcs and unnameable things moving through the gates, each gathering with their own and travelling to unknown destinies. When Mandos had said his gates were open, he had not specified that the evil things they held would be allowed out too... typical, Gildor thought.

In everyone's mind, the Noldor host was without doubt the largest. Gildor wasn't surprised - they had, after all, excelled in fighting the Enemy throughout the ages, not to mention the occasions they had been happy to exterminate their own kin. There seemed to be some sort of chain of command. Turgon was mentioned, and so was Maedhros and Maglor, who seemed to be holding their brothers on a tight rein. No one seemed to have seen Fëanor and for that Gildor was thankful - his genius was not worth the trouble he could cause. Those leaders of old gathered their own people. Gildor wondered who would stand at the head of the Nargothrond contingent. Would Orodreth be with them, wiser and stronger this time, or would Finrod come from his exile in this hour of need?

Gildor's current of thought was broken by the mention of Gil-galad's name. Trusting the word of the people, his old friend, his king, had not lost his hand. In the middle of the confusion that the Valar had not bothered to subdue, Gil-galad was keeping the factions together, making an effort to bridge the gaps, to minimally organize them and ensure some cohesion and common goals. Yes, that sounded like Gil-galad, alright, and for the first time in that week, Gildor felt a sense of purpose. It took him less than an hour to navigate through the crowd to where Gil-galad was. He was guided into an improvised large tent, but at the entrance, the guards blocked his way.

"Tell him that Gildor Inglorion is here, presenting himself for service," Gildor insisted in louder voice, and the again the guards told him to wait. Gildor was not in the mood to be patient, and took no time diving into an altercation with the guards. His stratagem worked, because soon enough a familiar voice boomed from inside, "Let him in."

Gildor passed through the flaps and found himself squeezed into a bear hug, accompanied by heavy slaps to his back.

"Gildor! Just the one I needed! Welcome, my friend!" Gil-galad drew back, allowing air back into Gildor's lungs.

"Damn, it's good to see you!"

From the corner of his eye, Gildor saw another figure coming close.

"Elrond!" he greeted. "It's been a while."

Elrond grinned, offering him a quick hug. "It has."

Elladan and Elrohir joined them, but their cordial greetings were interrupted.

"Very touching reunion, but I daresay we have more pressing business."

"Hah. Maedhros. I see that time did not dull your tongue," Gildor replied, taking in for the first time the other presences huddled together in the tent. By Maedhros' side stood his brothers, all of them. Gildor's heart unexpectedly lurched but he forced himself to turn his attention to the other attendants of the meeting.

"Turgon, Fingon," he greeted, coming closer to the central work table where a sea of paper loomed.

He noded in acknowledgement to a few other relatives and acquaintances, mostly from Gondolin - Rog, Egalmoth, Duilin, who he knew had left Mandos long before... He saw someone who could have been Gwindor, and completely out of place, Angrod. One would think that he would want to see his father...

"So." Gil-galad said. "We have made an improbable alliance here, as you can see, and it's no sea of roses. But our common problem is much larger than any personal divergences we may have, or so we seem to agree." Gildor watched him casting a steely gaze to his father. "Any information you may have for us is welcome."

Gildor knew what was expected from him. "We are in ignorance of what's to come, the same as you, I suppose. The Valar are not telling us all, but I doubt they know that much more... they seem frightened, if you ask me."

Maedhros snorted and Gildor continued, "We know you have no provisions and all the wheat in Tirion should last us all for a day, no more. I saw that your people seem to have been 'returned' as they were when they died. I saw quite a few pieces of sturdy armour and good weaponry in the hands of people who look like they know how to use them. In that regard, I'd say you're better equipped and trained. I'm training clumsy children and mine are not the worst. So, it's either war with no army worth the name or famine, but whatever the choice is, time is pressing."

Gil-galad assented. "It is as we suspected." He looked around. "We are done for now, I believe." To Gildor's surprise, most of the presents started leaving, accepting Gil-galad's authority. Gil-galad turned his attention again to Gildor, draping an arm around his shoulders in a friendly hug.

"Have you seen Glorfindel, lately?" Gil-galad asked, but Gildor didn't have time to reply. Fingon approached them.

"Now is not the time to take care of your pets, son," Fingon he spat, casting a venomous glare towards Gildor.

Gil-galad dropped his arm from Gildor's shoulders to the small of his back and pulled him close. "Ah, well, like father like son," he spat back, eyeing Maedhros who waited for Fingon by the entrance. "But I do prefer blonds over redheads, any day."

A muscle jumped on Fingon's jaw. "Be careful, boy, many things still may happen before this is over..."

Gil-galad addressed him a cold smile of dismissal. "Thank you for the kind advice, papa dear."

Fingon left, and with him the few people who still remained inside, leaving Gil-galad, Gildor and Elrond alone. Gildor's eyes had followed one particular figure in Maedhros' party with interest, but as Fingon had pointed out so sharply, it was hardly the time for old lovers' reunions...

"So, Glorfindel?" Gil-galad recalled him to the present.

"Yes, he has a house in Tirion but he doesn't spend too much time there. I'm not the only one who finds the courtly airs too noxious for breathing. The last I saw him he was, like myself, training recruits and held the rank of captain. Erestor too," he added for Elrond's benefit.

Gil-galad sighed. "It would be good if he could come to us." He rubbed the two lines between his eyebrows. "So, what didn't you tell us? By Mordor's fires, what is happening in Tirion?"

Gildor shrugged. "Take a king who's never seen war and who's been sitting on his throne forever and throw something like this on his lap."

Gil-galad searched the table and handed Gildor a crumpled piece of paper. "I received this letter a few hours ago, and so did Maedhros, Fingon, and Turgon to name a few. Apparently, we will be fed if we swear fealty to Finarfin."

Gildor snorted. "Now is not the time for civil war, but Finarfin's defence is so weak that you could seize the silos and the city with a flick of your wrist. It just wouldn't do you much good. How are things? "

"We have no formal cooperation with the Vanyar, the Teleri, the Sindar, the Silvan... Within the Noldor, Elrond got us Maedhros' allegiance. Maedhros secures my father's allegiance. Fingon buys us Turgon's allegiance. No one feels like bowing to Finarfin and it all hangs by a thread."

"What's with you and your father? If that's not private..."

"Daddy dear thinks that there's something wrong with the chain of command here. He took it particularly bad when I reminded him that I had more years of ruling than him, his brother and his lover all put together."

Gildor laughed. "You used to be more diplomatic..."

"This is war."

Gildor turned to Elrond and inquired, "Elrond, how did you know?"

"I have my sources. Finarfin sent me away, but not far away enough to render me useless. Besides, when the Sindar and the Silvan turned south, the host passed close to our home and the boys had the chance to gather some information. But changing the subject, I gather from your words that not much has changed in court..."

"Well, I'm not your best source - as you know I've willingly withdrawn long ago but what I hear from Celeborn and Galadriel is... worrying. Speaking of which, there is something I have to tell you about your auntie's activities... we may have an unsuspected ally..."

For the next half-an-hour, Gildor, Gil-galad and Elrond exchanged information and ideas. Despite the gravity of the moment, Gildor felt as if they had been returned to the old days in Lindon and he felt almost elated.

* * *

The meeting was interrupted by a messenger from Círdan, carrying news from Olwë. Gildor stepped out and focused on his surroundings, thinking on what Gil-galad had asked of him. He had to move fast and quiet. Taking a deep breath, he set for Tirion. He hadn't walked more than a mile when a hand on his arm stopped him.

"Gildor."

The voice was unmistakable, despite the years. Maybe a tad warmer than Gildor remembered it, or perhaps that had been just an effect of millennia working on his memory.

"Amras," Gildor replied, turning to face him.

Amras squinted at him. "Time has been kind to you."

Gildor felt a current of nervous energy flowing from where Amras' hand connected with his arm all the way down to his toes. "You look exactly the same," he replied, immediately chiding himself for such a weak comeback.

"It's quiet where I've been. We need to talk. That is, I would like to talk to you."

Gildor nodded. "Yes. But I have to go into town."

"Gone off in some errand?" Amras' voice trailed that fine line between genuine interest and spite that was so familiar after all that time.

"Yes, actually."

"Your little king seems awfully familiar with you," Amras said, his voice hardening.

"Amras, please. I don't have time right now. But in any case, do remember that I made no vow of eternal celibacy, not during your life and not after your death."

"So it is true!"

"No! I mean, yes, but not in the way that you think."

Amras closed his eyes, letting the air out of his lungs in one long sigh. "Listen, I know that time could not stand still for you, but for me... it's like it was yesterday. I can't stand seeing that little punk touching you like that."

Gildor shook his head. "It's not the way you think, but like you said time passed. I don't owe you a justification."

Amras nodded. "You know I'm jealous, always have been."

"I know. You drove me away, jealous of your own brother."

Amras chuckled, embarrassed. "Yeah. Well, I can't say that I've changed... but it wasn't all bad."

"No. It wasn't." Gildor looked at the sky, vainly trying to assess the time. "Listen, I really have to go to Tirion. I want... Can you come?"

Amras looked as surprised as Gildor was. "Huh... yeah. Yes. I can."

They manoeuvred through the crowd, Gildor wondering what had possessed him, Amras grinning, occasionally reaching out to touch him.


	3. Chapter 3

The first stop was still within the camp of the host. Gildor spotted Vanye in the crowed and called her out.

"Relatives?"

"Mother, grandparents. You?" she asked, casting an enquiring glance at Amras.

"An old friend. Listen, I need you to do something for me."

Vanye's straightened her back. "Of course, sir."

Gildor repressed a smile. He felt an equal mix of amusement and pride but Vanye was too young to see anything but the former. "I need you to gather the others and meet me at my place. You know where that is, right? Close to your father's bakery."

Vanye blushed. "Yes, sir."

After she left, Amras raised a quizzical eyebrow. "She's awfully young..."

"No more than we were..." Gildor stopped himself. Now was not the time to dwell in a gory past. "She's my best. And she should be a 'he', according to the martial law."

They continued walking, keeping their silence. As they left the crowd behind and approached the walls of Tirion, Amras spoke.

"I know it's not the time... but I wonder if we'll have any."

Gildor cast him a sidelong glance. "We'll find it," he said after a few moments, hearing the doubt in his own words.

"I don't mean to whine but isn't it just a tad cruel to bring back all these people just to have them die again?"

"If it's any comfort, the world has long lost any kind of meaning or purpose. It's been like living death here," Gildor said. "Or maybe that's just me," he added, thinking of many of the people he knew. "I don't know, Amras, but I am glad to see you, and I promise we'll find time."

* * *

They soon reached Galadriel's workshop. Gildor transmitted Gil-galad's message and left, giving her the time to find Celeborn and to reach a decision.

Then, he found his way to the training grounds, Amras in tow, his flaming hair drawing more than a fair share of attention. They ignored the glances and comments. Gildor knew that for many of them, Amras and his family were nothing more than the stuff of legends. Auburn hair was uncommon enough and Gildor was sure that many would not make the connection while others would have trouble fathoming such a sweet-faced youth as a mass murderer. Still, their cousins would not fail to recognize Amras, and a few uncomfortable moments were foreseeable.

Gildor had barely completed the thought when an angry Aredhel blocked his way with her stallion.

"What is he doing here? You couldn't wait a second longer to bring him from the dead and be his little whore again, couldn't you?"

Amras reached for his side, but Gildor stopped him with a hand on the wrist. Looking at Aredhel with all the contempt he felt, he bit harsher words in favour of a subtler retort. "Speaking of which, cousin, Celegorm is feeling lonely."

Before Aredhel found a comeback, he pulled Amras and went around Aredhel's horse. He wasn't fooled by her quick dismissal of them: Aredhel was too full of herself these days to let go of an opportunity of exerting power. He quickened his step.

"We're looking for Glorfindel, remember him?" he said to Amras.

"Indis' nephew? That scrawny kid?"

"Yes, well, he grew up. Was a lord in Gondolin by the time you had-" Gildor winced. "Sorry. It's hard to avoid the subject."

"Hey, I died," Amras said. "No beating around the bush."

A shiver ran down Gildor's spine. Amras was too congenial, too eager to please. Either he had an ulterior motive or a storm would soon break. He should have remembered how moody he was, how difficult, before so rashly asking for his company. A flash of gold caught his eye.

"There!" he said, stopping on his tracks.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Amras asked.

"I would prefer not approaching him in public. There are too many eyes here."

They waited patiently until Glorfindel looked their way. With a shift of his eyeballs, Gildor indicated a side street. Almost imperceptibly, Glorfindel nodded and turned back to his recruits, as if he hadn't seen Gildor at all. Gildor and Amras retreated.

"Why are you so sure he'll come? He barely acknowledged you," Amras said.

"He will come. Just wait."

"While we wait, why not bring me up to date so that I can help you?"

Gildor swallowed dryly, certain of one thing: even if he hadn't asked Amras to come along, his old flame would have volunteered - Amras was not that innocent or well-meaning that he would only want to help. Gildor should have known that Amras' loyalty would always go first to his brothers. This was not the time for confrontation, though, and Glorfindel was already approaching them. Gildor smiled. "Well, too late now," he said to Amras. "I'll tell you more when we reach my place."

He walked towards Glorfindel and greeted him with a brief hug. Glorfindel smiled. "It's been a while, but I suspect you're not here for old times' sake."

Gildor grinned. "I was with Gil-galad."

Glorfindel's face darkened. "Still playing dangerous games, I see."

Gildor nodded. "Not games. How loyal are you to Finarfin?"

"He has my oath."

"Glorfindel..." Gildor chided.

Glorfindel shifted his weight on his feet and cast an uneasy glance at Amras. "Fine. What do you need from me?"

Gildor pulled him into a close embrace and whispered Gil-galad's request into his ear. The alley was nearly empty, but one never knew what ears could be lurking about and now he had to have extra care because of Amras.

Glorfindel listened intently and then they separated. He bit his lip. "I don't know, Gildor, that sounds like high treason to me."

Gildor looked around, but no one was in sight. "Your first oath was to Turgon, and your second was to protect his line, namely Elrond."

"My heart calls for a 'yes' but you have to see that at this moment introducing this kind of chaos in Tirion..." Gildor widened his eyes in warning and Glorfindel again glanced at Amras. "Alright," he conceded. "I'll see what I can do."

They parted with another hug.

* * *

Gildor and Amras practically ran all the way back to Gildor's home. A fine mist had descended upon the city, finally giving them repose from the red glare of the sky. By the time they had crossed all of Tirion, a fine red rain was falling on them. At first Gildor thought that the colour was an illusion of the light, but soon enough Amras remarked, "It rains blood."

Gildor pressed his lips and pressed forward, trying to subdue the feeling of foreboding. They were soaked by the time they arrived at his house and he promptly started undressing. He went out back and pumped water into a bucket for some quick personal hygiene. Gildor could feel Amras' eyes burning into his back, but he kept silent. His mind was reeling with thousands of thoughts and he knew he lacked clarity.

Inside, Amras watched him washing from the waist up. The silence grew heavy.

"Here, let me help you," Amras offered at length, reaching to scrub Gildor's back. "You're going to get your trousers all wet this way."

"I don't have time for a full bath. People will be coming soon."

Amras sighed. "Help me, Gildor." He wrapped his arms around Gildor's frame, leaning his chin on one shoulder. The gesture was so familiar that Gildor instinctively relaxed into the embrace, turning his head until their cheeks met. He wanted to be angry and wary of Amras, but all he could think of to say was, "You'll get wet."

Amras sighed. "I don't mind. I need some washing too." He ran his fingers up and down Gildor's stomach, then held him tighter.

"Why did you turn so cold of a sudden?" Amras whispered. "Is that Glorfindel your lover? Because right until we met him you were fine."

Gildor moved uneasily, but Amras held him in place. "I knew from the first moment I saw you by Gil-galad's side that you hadn't waited for me, and I do try to understand, but it's so hard. For me it was like yesterday."

Delicately, Gildor extricated himself from Amras' arms and turned to face him. "Why are you really here, Amras?"

Amras never replied. A knock on the door prompted Gildor to the window. "Drat!"

"What is it?"

 

 

Gildor put his shirt on. "The king's men. Our lovely cousin Aredhel wasted no time."

From the street a voice came. "Gildor Inglorion! Gildor Inglorion!" Through a fringe in the curtain, Gildor could see his neighbours coming to their windows. Worse, at the end of the street, he saw Vanye and a few of his other recruits. They would walk right in to the lion's mouth.

The soldier started declaring, "We have come to take you to the presence of his Majesty, King Finarfin. Present yourself!"

Gildor looked at Amras. "We have no time. Leave through the backdoor. Close it behind you, and go to Vanye. She knows what to do."

"What about you?"

"I'm not necessary at this point."

The soldiers started kicking at the door.

"Go! Tell Vanye to go to Galadriel when she is done. Go."

The door cracked, and Amras slipped to the kitchen and through the backdoor as Gildor faced the soldiers.

"That was a new door," he said.

The soldiers were little more than boys and had the decency to look embarrassed.

"Well, let's go, then," Gildor said, leading the way.

* * *

"Well, well, nephew," Finarfin said when Gildor was finally brought to him, after a long, long wait.

Gildor had not spoken with him in more years than he could recall and abstained from any greetings.

"I hear some disturbing news about your activities and the people you chose to associate with."

Gildor raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Always insolent... I have been warned about you. I should have listened more carefully."

Gildor didn't need to be told exactly from where the warnings came.

"The end of the world looms over us and you are worried about your little court games? Have you completely lost your sense, uncle?"

Finarfin rose from the throne. "Watch your mouth! You will tell me what is going on behind my back and you will speak now. High treason is still punishable by death."

"And they called you wise!" Gildor spat. "I once admired you, but look at what you have become, blinded by lies and drunk on power. You're no better than Fëanor ever was."

Gildor heard the soldier behind him moving, but Finarfin stopped him with a hand gesture.

"Gildor, tell me what is going on. For your own sake, for everyone's sake. Can't you see that this is no time for rebellion?"

"And can't you see that it's no time to starve people because you want to twist someone's arm?"

"Ah, Aredhel was right. Just tell me one thing: what is my daughter's role in all of this?"

Gildor was sure he had not hid the shock in his face for a few revealing seconds. "I'm imagining I'm too small a fish for you to have me being followed, so the alternative is that you have your own daughter under surveillance."

"Don't avoid the answer. Nerwen has done more than her share to lose my trust."

"You are blind. Your spies should have informed you better. Galadriel will not be disloyal to you, no matter how undeserving you are as a father and as a king!"

"So you say."

"You may not remember loyalty anymore, Finarfin, but as you said, now is really not the time. Mandos gave you, gave us, a direct order, to feed the incoming people. You are in no position to talk of disobedience or disloyalty."

"I do not take orders from Mandos or any other Vala!" Finarfin shouted.

"Just like your older brother."

"With whom you no doubt conspire! Where is my nephew Amras? Or was it Amrod? I hear that you weren't too particular," Finarfin sneered at Gildor.

"I would never serve Fëanor, if that's what you fear. But don't forget that there are others far more worthy than you... Your own son, Angrod, prefers to stick by Gil-galad's side."

Finarfin actually looked pained. He took a deep breath. "Fine. I see that you are a waste of my precious time. You'll have enough time to meditate on your errors where you are going." With a nod to the guards, he said, "Take him."

* * *

Gildor was thrown into a dark room. The door closed quickly in his face and he turned around.

"Welcome, cousin," a deep melodious voice greeted.

"Galadriel!" Gildor's heart sunk.

"Yes."

Gildor sighed. "I seem to have lost my touch. I apologise for having compromised you."

"It doesn't matter."

Something in her voice made Gildor come closer. "Doesn't it?"

She reached for his hand and squeezed it. "No."

They sat in silence, Gildor thinking on their short exchange and the layers of meaning hidden in the words. What did Galadriel knew. Had she decided to help Gil-galad and his host? Had she acted before being captured?

They waited, knowing that any words leaving their lips would probably be heard by a third party. Gildor explored the room but the windows were blocked and the only door was guarded. He sat by Galadriel's side. Every now and then, steps would sound in the hallway, but they would never stop at their door. Gildor would see the soft glow of Galadriel's reassuring smile, but dared not pose any questions. He had been reckless enough.

Not more than a few hours had passed, when they heard a soft scraping at one of the windows. Galadriel's smile brightened. She rose and walked to the door, muttering something that sounded like an incantation in ancient Quenya. The sounds in the room became muffled. Gildor saw the red glow coming in as the window panes were removed, outlining a silhouette.

"Celeborn!" Gildor saw Galadriel's lips moving but still no sound louder than a rustle of leaves came to his ears. He followed Galadriel to the window and helped her leap outside, watching in amusement at how unexpectedly girlish she became at the sight of her husband. Gildor followed her through the window and landed silently on a patch of grass.

Celeborn beckoned Gildor and Galadriel to follow, leading them through the shadows to the south door. The rain had become heavier and the red rivulets ran down the streets. The streets were full of people who dared not sleep but the silence was only broken by thunder.

The south door was closed, but Celeborn pressed on, tossing a hurried explanation over his shoulder. "Finarfin has placed guards on all the doors but your little Vanye turned out to be most resourceful. We should be safe but we have to move fast."

Gildor and Galadriel followed him, watching as he whistled a sign and a guard quietly cracked the door for them, then followed as they ran for the tree cover, where a group awaited them. Before Gildor could see faces of his rescuers, he was pulled into an embrace.

"Gildor!"

Gildor pulled back and spoke coldly. "Amras."

"Hurry, we must move!" Celeborn urged. "Amras, did you get the messages through?"

"Yes. Gil-galad has sent two parties out. I heard some news while at the headquarters. Large groups of orcs have been spotted wedging between us and the Sindar host."

Celeborn exchanged and glance with Galadriel. She looked at Gildor and Amras. "I saw something in my mirror. I think our wait will not last more than a day now... as you suspected, cousin," she added for Gildor's benefit.


	4. Chapter 4

They marched in silence to the camp, past the sentinels and then to Gil-galad's tent. They were served cups of a scalding tea and a small piece of bread each. Gildor's stomach rumbled and he realized that he hadn't eaten in almost one full day.

At Gil-galad's request, Galadriel started telling her story. "As you know, my husband and I felt that we were neglecting the preparation of half of the population. We could not reach all, obviously, but we did what we could for those closest to us and they in turn transmitted what they could to others. When I received your letter I was torn, cousin," she continued casting her heavy gaze upon Gil-galad. "You were asking me to steal from my own father... but then again, all this cereal belongs justly to those who cultivated it, not the king." She smiled bitterly. "We have had our share of strife over this matter, my father and I. But moving on, we knew we were under surveillance and so we sent out a letter declining any sort of participation in the plan, which was left unnamed, but hinted at something infinitely more benign than what I had been asked to do. My father's agents intercepted it and I was summoned. Fortunately Celeborn was away and he was warned before the royal guard found him. My father, rather justly, thought that neglecting to mention that there was a conspiracy going on was equivalent of high treason and kept me locked."

Gil-galad nodded. "I don't understand why you'd send out a letter that you knew would be caught and would be all the same nefarious to you."

"We needed to buy time. While my father was busy with me, my husband, our women, and Glorfindel with his company - and Gildor's - made some preparations in and out of town. The largest silos are spread in a wide circle outside the city walls and it's possible that even at this late moment, their depletion is still unnoticed."

"It worked... for now. The first wagons arrived a few hours ago, and we are feeding the people as fast as we can. We had seen the last of the provisions we were handed as we left Mandos two days ago. I'm sorry that it cost you your father's trust..."

Galadriel smiled bitterly. "I have lost that and his esteem long ago, for daring to have opinions. You are still the wisest king I have met."

Gil-galad looked vaguely flushed. Gildor found endearing how compliments still seemed to embarrass him. "Well, we do have other problems to solve. Orodreth and Angrod have fallen out and I fear that your nephew is thinking on changing camps. We can't afford to have that happen..."

Galadriel nodded. "I'll speak with him. Any news from Finrod, yet?"

Gil-galad shook his head. "Unfortunately, no."

A messenger came in and asked permission to speak. From his clothes Gildor deducted that he was with Maedhros' troop.

"News from the south, o king. The orc army has been joined by creatures we have never seen. They are larger than orcs and more resistant. There are also wargs, dragons, and a few balrogs seem to be leading the host. Overall we estimate that their number has increased threefold since our last report."

Gil-galad nodded gravely and thanked the messenger.

"Alright. We have some strategy to discuss, now," he said, dismissing them. "Someone please call Maedhros, Fingon and Turgon."

* * *

Gildor left the tent, looking around a little aimlessly. He had no place to go. A hand fell on his shoulder.

"Come."

"Amras, I..."

"We need to talk but not here."

Gildor followed Amras through the maze of improvised tents until they stopped at a small one. "I am sharing with Amrod," he said apologetically.

Gildor shrugged, uneasy. He had not been too friendly with Amrod after his affair with Amras had become known. Jealousy ran hot in the blood of the sons of Fëanor, and the older twin had not taken kindly to no longer being the centre of his brother's life.

Fortunately, the tent was empty. They huddled in and sat on the shabby blanket that turned out to be a cape on second inspection. Not even the sons of kings had extra comfort in this host of bedraggled souls.

Amras ran a knuckle along Gildor's cheekbone. "You look older, wiser."

Gildor stayed stubbornly silent.

"I can't help feeling what I feel. I know we parted... not on the best terms, and then everything was happening so fast and I was there no longer. I am sorry. I barely remember the harsh words we've exchanged. I know I was jealous, possessive. I know I was wrathful and hopeless and that I wanted to drag you down into the darkness that surrounded me. But when I see you all I can think of is our better days."

Gildor let him finish his speech and waited a few moments, to collect his thoughts. "I felt the same when I saw you. My heart beat faster, something sat on my chest preventing me from breathing. But things have changed for me. I have lived so much. I am certainly not the elf you once knew."

Amras sighed. "You think that I was frozen in time, don't you? I could see it when I asked you about Gil-galad and Glorfindel, that you were thinking I was still the same possessive, infantile fool. And you are right, I feel what I feel and that cannot change. But I had more than enough time to think on how to act differently, on what I feel and on how I could do things better, given another chance. I asked you about them because I wanted to understand, not because I wanted to make a scene. Can you see that?"

Gildor shook his head. "True, you were better in that, but the unease you roused in me cannot be dissipated that easily. That business of you spying on me, I didn't take it too kindly."

Amras jolted back, a look of genuine horror in his face. "Spying on you? Is that what you think? You invited me!"

He took a deep breath and made a visible effort to calm himself down. Gildor appreciated the gesture. The old Amras would have by now left the tent shouting. When Amras spoke, his voice was an octave lower.

"You invited me to go along," he repeated, "And no matter what you think, my brothers are not stupid. Maedhros does not have a secret agenda. It's not the time for that."

"So why?" Gildor asked, unconvinced.

Armas shook his head, his palpable disappointment shooting a dart into Gildor's conscience. "I wanted to spend some time with you. I thought you invited me because you wanted the same."

Gildor lifted a doubtful eyebrow. "You were never the kind type."

"I wasn't," Amras conceded, "but do allow me to be now. Listen, ask who you want, _think_. I could have gone straight back to camp after your arrest, if all I wanted was to spy on you for Maedhros. I saved your little Vanye from doing something stupid and trying to rescue you on the street. When we were arriving at Galadriel's, we saw her arrest - I warned Celeborn, I worked with him and Glorfindel to gather all their recruits as discreetly as possible, and I went with Vanye to secure the south door. Just ask Celeborn."

Gildor bit his upper lip and chewed on what Amras said. At length, he let out a slow, loud sigh. "Alright. I owe you an apology." He looked into Amras' eyes and saw hurt pride, and a sort of hopeful need that jolted him into the past, when both had been far more innocent and Amras would come to him, first seeking for the understanding that sometimes was short in his overcrowded house, later seeking for the unconditional love that he could obtain nowhere else.

For a second, Gildor felt young again, felt like the slightly junior, slightly shorter cousin whose heart lit up at the chance of spending time with glorious Amras. Puppy love, it had been, but then it had become more. Amras was right, they had been happy, despite the disapproval of their elders. Fëanor's wrath often manifested itself in large bruises over pale skin. Amras would never talk about it; only shed a few hot tears on Gildor's shoulder. Gildor smiled, thinking on how he used to climb out his window to meet Amras, evading all groundings, to his father's frustration...

Amras' warm hand on his cheek brought him to the present and then his memories drifted to later times, after the Sundering Sea had been crossed and the innocence had fled from their hearts. Gildor kissed Amras' palm. "I'm sorry I thought the worst of you."

Amras smiled. "I gave you cause."

"Let's not talk of it."

Amras tilted his head and kissed Gildor. A surge of tenderness washed over Gildor as the discrete touch of lips gave way to a warmer kiss, a tentative one, their lips only slightly parted.

"Stay a while," Amras whispered against Gildor's cheek, unwittingly stoking the slow burn of affection into a blaze with his words.

Gildor kissed him again, open mouth, in a sloppy meeting of tongues, neither lazy nor rushed. Amras wrapped his arms around Gildor's shoulders, pulling him closer, then leaning back until Gildor's body covered him. The kisses became deeper and their hands moved, seeking skin under garments. Letting out a long sigh, Amras broke the kiss and raised his arms over his head, so that Gildor could remove his tunic without unbuttoning it. Gildor complied and then removed his own, as Amras pushed down his own trousers before attacking Gildor's.

"Morgoth could come right now and I wouldn't care," he whispered, drawing a chuckle from Gildor.

"Neither would I. Now shut up," he taunted, covering Amras' body again with his own. Everything felt so deliciously familiar that it almost took his breath. His eyes stung as his fingertips felt for the scar on the back of Amras' arm, something acquired in a forgotten hunting accident. A week before, if asked, Gildor would not have remembered that, or how Amras' always seemed to smell like something coming from the forest, or how he could make Gildor's gut twist into a knot with a simple sigh. It had been a lifetime ago, but the body remembered more than his treacherous heart.

Amras sighed, "More," held him tighter and pushed his hips onto Gildor's, making Gildor grind back, forgetting all thoughts of finesse in favour of blind hunger. Amras had been his first - he might as well be his last.

The lost track of time, mouths chasing each other, hands grasping hard enough to bruise, sweat-slick limbs twining so that where one began and the other ended became irrelevant.

Years for training, of alertness, did not help Gildor - he could only hear Amras, how his heart raced, how his breath hitched in response to Gildor's touch, how close he became to the point of tipping. He didn't try to hold him back, but rather pushed forward, his hand speeding on Amras, teeth sinking into his shoulder. Amras did not shy, tightening his grip on Gildor, his mouth dropping the most shamefully delicious words into Gildor's ear. How Gildor had missed that, how he could have forgotten Amras talking dirty, not princely, not dignified at all... Their breathing more than laborious, became a series of gasps and then Amras moaned deep in his throat, his body arching in one tense thrust as he came, ropes and ropes of warmth falling on Gildor's hand, smearing between their bodies.

Letting no more than an instant pass, he sought Gildor's length with his hand and started moving his hand again, still panting hard. Gildor lifted his weight on his elbows to look down, to where their bodies met, the glorious mess in Amras' chest, his own skin glistening with sweat and saliva and desire. Pumping into that hand as if it were Amras' willing body, he felt wave after wave of pleasure, coming stronger, announcing a climax that was so near... A soft, unexpected nibble on his neck, and everything collapsed, exploded into joy and almost-pain and release. Gildor was sure he was too loud but he couldn't care because it felt like crying and laughing and being young and alive and home again.

A faint laugh bubbled in Gildor's throat as he lay down by Amras' side, slowly, reluctant to let go. "Varda, we stink!"

Amras chuckled. "That's the best you have to say? I think 'we are amazing' would do a better job."

They lay for a few instants more before Gildor noticed that something had changed. "The rain... it has stopped."

They exchanged worried glances and hurriedly pulled on their clothes.

* * *

A foreboding silence blanketed the camp. Gildor and Amras headed for Gil-galad's tent, just in time to see him leaving, followed by a large delegation. They trailed behind the group, trying to find someone who would tell them what was going on.

At last, Gildor found an amiable enough face. "Elrohir," he whispered, daring to break the solemn silence.

Elrohir stepped out of the line and came to Gildor's side. "Finarfin has discovered the missing wheat," he said. "He has called Gil-galad and has issued several ugly threats. We're heading off to meet him outside the walls."

Gildor nodded and joined the line, Amras by his side.

* * *

Their march was not long. From behind the lines Gildor could barely see anything. He and Amras snuck around the orderly formation of three lines of soldiers to the side of the camp. Gil-galad stood in front of the lines armed with his spear only. A wide empty space separated him from Finarfin, still mounted on his horse. Gildor did not even blink at the discourtesy - it was more than expected.

Finarfin had brought an impressive host with him, but Gildor knew painfully well how unprepared they were; still, they had the numbers. Behind Gil-galad's soldiers there was only a mass of people vaguely armed and not yet an army, or so it seemed to his eye. Finarfin also had the advantage of the terrain - behind him there were the walls of Tirion, ready for the defence and mid to long range attack, and there were the gates like open arms, ready to receive and protect him.

Despairing, Gildor sighed. It was a testament to collective and individual stupidity that given millennia to learn, to evolve, his kin had grasped at nothing more than vane belligerence. Fëanor would have been proud of his little brother.

Amras took Gildor's hand and squeezed it. "This is wrong," he whispered.

Gildor only nodded. Sounds seemed to be magnified in the heavy silence and he had nothing to say that could improve on Amras' simple pronouncement.

Gil-galad broke the lock of gazes by stepping forward. "Uncle," he greeted, slightly bowing his head.

Finarfin sneered. "Am I? It's hard to keep track of the bastards in this family. And now the thieves, too. We are here to claim our wheat. It's too late to accept your allegiance now that you've proven your ill-faith."

"It's been more than two days since you were ordered, by a higher power, to feed us. We are not thieves, but hungry elves, driven by necessity."

Behind Gil-galad Fingon nodded, and glared defiantly at his uncle. "My son is no bastard, o tyrant," he provoked.

Finarfin raised an eyebrow. "Ah, Maedhros' pet. You were not missed, nephew." Scanning the lines, he raised his eyebrow. "Galadriel, how unexpected," he sneered.

"Father," she started, but Finarfin halted her.

"No more your father am I."

She nodded in silence, lifting her chin. "Your choice, sire."

"Enough distractions, " Finarfin all but roared. "Deliver the wheat and surrender yourself and none will be harmed," he ordered Gil-galad.

"The wheat is long gone into the starving bellies of those who came to defend you. As for me, I will surrender if that's the wish of those backing me."

At his words, his lines pressed forward. Even in the periphery, Gildor felt the push, found himself and Amras taking the menacing step and again the word 'wrong' echoed in his mind, even as pride swelled in his heart at the sight of the loyalty Gil-galad commanded. The crowd behind their lines shifted, and suddenly familiar military patterns appeared before Gildor's eyes.

Finarfin visibly tensed. "You do carry the blood of the kinslayers," he said. "So be it." He raised his arm but before he gave the order, Aegnor stepped from behind him and stopped his arm mid-air. "Father," he said loud enough for all to hear, but the angry exchange that followed was too quiet to be followed. At the end, Aegnor stood looking vaguely bewildered at his father, and shook his head. "I am with my sister and brothers," he declared, walking to Gil-galad's side. "I have tolerated your madness long enough."

Gildor held his breath and tighetend is hold on Amras' hand. Aegnor had faithfully stood by Finarfin when all others but Aredhel had been pushed away. Some rumoured that the price for his survival in the harsh winds of court had been to play the role of a whore, but Gildor had known him well-enough to recognize nothing more than sheer stubbornness and blind devotion. Aegnor was also Finarfin's commander-in-chief and his departure had a visible effect on the lines.

Finarfin raised his arm a second time and completed the gesture. A few hesitant bodies stepped forward, weapons drawn at awkward angles by unwilling hands. Others just stood, arms akimbo.

"Father," Galadriel pleaded. "You were wise and kind. Do not degrade yourself by going down this road."

Finarfin's shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and for a heartbeat, Gildor hoped he would be take the high road and swallow the humiliation. But that would have been too easy.

He turned to face his own people. "I have been your lord for long and under me you've had peace and prosperity. You owe me something and when I raise my arm again, I expect you to follow my command." As he made to turn his eyes lit on the doors of the city and the strange procession that came forth. All eyes followed his, and there they were, Galadriel's handmaidens armed with kitchen knives, garden tools and broomsticks among other household items.

As the small contingent walked toward the centre of the camp, their voices started rising in song, an old harvest song that spoke of bounty, peace and sharing. One of them, who looked as old as an elf could, her shape worn by a lifetime of work, bowed before Finarfin.

"We were not made for war, but war is upon us. We see the Enemy already looming in the horizon, marching to us. Please accept what humble aid we can offer, o king."

She bowed deeper until she knelt before Finarfin, waiting. Gildor found himself holding his breath again, but unexpectedly, Finarfin nodded, biting his lower lip as his face turned into a grimace. He looked around, as if waking from a long sleep, catching sight of Aredhel, who approached on her stallion.

"Uncle, let us retreat behind the walls and leave these sorts to their own fate."

"No!" Finarfin shouted. "You run and hide. I've been a fool for far too long."

Fingolfin strode forward. "A good king knows how to make his people follow," he shouted.

"A good king knows when his time has passed and his authority became a farce," Finarfin retorted. "Be gone, brother." Hiding his face between his hands, he called a single word, so softly Gildor barely heard him. "Finrod."

Gil-galad stepped closer and touched his elbow. "He is coming."

Finarfin looked at him, then shifted his eyes to Galadriel. "Daughter, you have my crown."

"Father, I do not want it. Let me stand by your side and trust me as you once did."

With a meaningful glance toward Angrod, she walked to her father and took his arm. "We need you. Let's not dwell on the past now."

Finarfin nodded and let her and Angrod conduct him through the lines, back to Gil-galad's tent.

* * *

The crowd started dispersing. Gildor and Amras found their way back to their tent, resigned to waiting for orders.

"Hah, talk about anticlimax," Amras said, breaking the silence. "Maglor would have never written a ballad ending as poorly as this one," he tried to joke.

His words felt hollow and bitter, though, and Gildor could not muster a smile.

"I think we learned. I think there's hope for us. This could have ended differently, yes, but hardly better."

Amras bit his lip. "I know. Oh, I know, oh, so well. It was just a stupid joke. Would that my brothers and I had had half of Finarfin's discernment, however clouded his mind was for a while."

Gildor took his hand. "I didn't mean to preach. It's just..."

"I know."

"So now all we have to do is wait..."

"I guess."

"We can die. And even if we don't we don't know what will happen next. Mandos' prophecy did mention something about the end of the world..."

Amras smiled. "Losing your never already? I'm disappointed."

"No. Not really. I'm just... I don't know what to think. All that's happened, finding you, the sheer thought of the end of the world... We were running back and forth all busy, but now that I have pause to think, I am overwhelmed."

"I left the halls of the dead." Amras said. "I suspect it won't be for long, but the fact is that I am glad to be alive and here with you."

Gildor squeezed the hand in his, looking deeply into Amras' eyes. "I am glad you are too."

* * *

They found their tent and entered, sitting on their knees in the cramped space. Amrod was in, lying on the blanket that had been their bed hours before.

"I found Father," he said quietly. .

Gildor swallowed dryly. He glanced at Amras, whose freckles were suddenly too evident as the pallor spread over his face.

"Where is he? And what's he up to?" Amras asked.

Amrod shifted his eyes to Gildor. "It's family business."

"Don't even start," Amras warned. "Say it."

Amrod sighed. "He's been following the column since we've left Mandos, always one day behind. These last two days that we've been here, he went back to spy on the Enemy. I found him by chance, as he tried to sneak into Gil-galad's tent to leave a marked map and a few notes. Crazy..."

"Where is he now?"

"He went back to the rear of the camp. Says he doesn't belong here, but this is his way of helping. Amras, you should have seen him..."

"What's wrong?"

The touch of despair in Amras' voice spoke of a filial devotion that touched Gildor. Despite everything that Fëanor had done and bound his sons to follow, despite the harsh words he had so often dispensed Amras in their youth, the love and loyalty he inspired in his sons and followers never seemed to falter.

"He's different," Amrod replied.

Gildor placed a hand on Amras shoulder, gently squeezing in a mute offer of comfort.

"How?" Amras pressed.

"He's quiet, his eyes looked tired, worn. He is lucid as ever but his words scare me. I think he is planning on doing something crazy. He spoke of atonement and sacrifice but wouldn't tell me more. Amras, I'm scared."

Amras knelt forward and pressed his forehead to Amrod's in an intimate gesture of comfort. A pang of jealousy old as time stabbed at Gildor's heart. Despite Amrod's disapproval of their romance and the many times the twins had fought over this and other matters, they still had a connection that ran deeper than anything Gildor could have offered. In his youth he had felt insecure, poorly loved; now, he understood it better, but still envied it.

"Did you tell Maedhros already?" Amras asked.

"No."

"Why?"

"Maglor... he also saw father and spoke to him. He says we should let him be. That we all have a role and Father is doing his as best he can. That despite the centuries, it's too early to bring him back. I think he's crazy."

"Maglor was always the wisest... but I can't understand this." Amras shuffled his knees and looked pleadingly at Gildor, begging for his council with his eyes.

Gildor drew his shoulders in a slow shrug and shook his head, lowering his eyes. What good Fëanor could do, he should do it from the shadow and not bring any more confusion to a group that was already so divided.

"We should just leave him to fight his own battle, that's it?" Amras angrily asked his lover and his brother.

"Amras," Amrod started.

"No, I need to see him."

"Even if you could find him, there would be no time left. We can almost hear a clock ticking over our heads. And he's left it very clear that he doesn't want us there. You have to respect that."

"He's right," Gildor said.

Amras closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. "Fine."

Amrod and Gildor exchange a glance and both huddled around Amras.

* * *

Time dragged, now that all that was left to do was to wait. A few of Maedhros' messengers came with notes for Amras and Amrod. Gildor asked himself if he should seek his company and stay with them, but as things stood, the people from Tirion were being integrated into stronger, more experienced companies. From inside the tent they could hear people coming and going, a discreet bustling speaking of order and preparation. Near dawn, a horn sounded, calling all to formation. The sun rose and went up a few degrees in the sky before all were ready and in their places, but considering the size and diversity of the crowd, Gildor was amazed that they had made it at all. The companies at the front were made up of older, more experienced warriors, and behind them stood the youths of Tirion. Behind them came the women and girls of Mandos and Tirion.

The murmur slowly died, and Gil-galad started speaking, exhorting all to courage and brotherhood in times of need. He praised Finarfin for his generosity, as if the events of a few hours before had never taken place. Likewise, he called his father, Maedhros, and Turgon, acknowledging their role in the preparation for the war. A few more names dropped from his lips, but he finished by thanking and encouraging all the men and women who had come forth to fight.

This was not the first of such speeches that Gildor had heard but Gil-galad's commanded attention for its simplicity and its starkness. Orders were given and the companies started moving to the chosen battlefield, a few miles away from the camp. Rumour had it that the Enemy waited for them already. Gildor was surprised that the end of the world as they knew it would come in the form of a classic battle, but here it was.

They kept on marching, Gildor, Amrod, and Amras side by side under Maedhros' banner. Gildor had almost laughed when he had found himself there, he who had so heatedly sworn that he would never walk under that shadow again. But that meant nothing now. They were all here for one purpose only and all grievances had to be forgotten, for the sake of the greater good.

The armies stood face to face. Gildor squinted, trying to see what horrors lay in wait, but in the ranks of the Enemy, amidst the drakes, balrogs, spiders, uruk-hais, wargs, and myriads of orcs, Morgoth was nowhere to be seen.

A menacing drum sounded rhythmically and the sky started to cover again in red. The armies stood still, waiting for a sign. Thunder broke and with it a heavy rain fell on them, creating the perfect mud ground for slaughter. Gildor shivered - he had seen other battles in similar ground and the prospect was less than thrilling.

Gil-galad paced back and forth along his lines and Gildor could only wonder what it was that kept him and the general of the Enemy, whoever he was, from giving the order to attack. Soon enough he understood.

Other contingents of dark creatures arrived to fill out the enemy's already enormous lines. Then, from the left, came the Sindar and the Silvan, more able bodies to swell Gil-galad's ranks. The Noldor greeted them with exuberant shouts, and suddenly the whole army seemed energized. Their right flank was complemented with a host of Vanyar, Teleri, Maiar and Valar. Gildor wondered why they had taken so long to join them, being so close geographically, but he had not stepped away from politics for long enough to ignore what a powerful driver those could be. Behind them, Mandos lead a column of Men and Aulë stood by his Dwarves. Everybody had shown for the party.

The lines of the Enemy opened and a gigantic figure shrouded in black came forth. Morgoth, then. Against his will, Gildor felt his heart racing. Morgoth was, if nothing else, imposing. He raised his arm and, when he was sure all eyes were glued on him, he spoke.

"Manwë, step forth, brother. I have missed you in my confinement."

Morgoth's sneer chilled Gildor to the bone. Beside him, Amras tensed, as did most of their companions.

Manwë moved forth, shrugging Varda's hand from his shoulder, but before he reached the forefront, a much smaller figure ran forth, stepping between them.

"I'll have your blood first," Fëanor shouted, diving with his sword pointed at Morgoth's thigh.

"Father!" Amras called, but his voice was lost in the roar that came from both armies. Morgoth leapt away, in an ungraceful movement, and from behind Manwë, another figure, a man who Gildor could only imagine to be Turin Turambar, came forth, also claiming his share of blood.

Fëanor rolled on the ground and regained his feet in a sweeping movement, while Turin dove in to take his place. Both armies started agitating, cheering, and then the Enemy broke lines and charged forth. Gil-galad raised his arm and his captains echoed his order.

Gildor obeyed the command, running into the fray, eager to have his blade meet foul flesh. The thunder in the skies allied with the clatter of thousands of feet running, the first steel crossing, and rain poured, making it impossible to see beyond an arm's reach.

Gildor looked from the corner of his eye in time to see Amras's sword drop onto the ugliest orc he had ever seen. His own sword moved to slash the orc that came from his right and with the movement came a war cry that had not sounded in Ages.

"Aurë entuluva!"

The battle had begun.

 

_Finis  
September 2008_


End file.
